


Tell Me Lies, Tell Me Lies

by SaltyStarChild (Charonte_Queen)



Series: Michael Guerin Week 2019 [5]
Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Day Seven Prompt, Drunk and Disorderly, M/M, Michael Guerin Week 2019, Post 1x13, SO, and my brain is dumb and said to trash and redo the other fics, because this is done, posting out of order, yeah - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-11-26 06:01:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20925335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Charonte_Queen/pseuds/SaltyStarChild
Summary: So, yeah, Michael can’t sleep. Sue him.Instead, he decided to do what he always does: drink and forget.[a really late MGWeek2019 Day Seven: drunk and disorderly]





	Tell Me Lies, Tell Me Lies

**Author's Note:**

> My brain is killing me that I'm posting this out of order but it's also killing me to have this done and ready without posting it. I lose either way, so I figured I'd treat y'all to the finished fic at least.

Max was dead.

Really, truly, can’t-wake-him-up-but-try-it-anyway dead.

Michael can’t sleep anymore. Not without seeing his mother behind glass in a building about to explode, and Noah and Max facing off in the hallway in front of her. His mom’s words echo in his head, a constant stream of ‘_I love you_’s, a stark contrast to Michael’s desperate begging to Max that he needs to get the hell out before everything goes kaboom. But Max always ignores him (or maybe he could never hear Michael in the first place). Then Max would defeat Noah and turn to Michael with a smile.

That’s where everything always goes up in smoke. The detonation has reached zero, the building shakes and Michael’s ears ring, and everything is too warm and numb. Michael always survives the explosion, for no reason other than it’s a nightmare. He’d pick himself up off the ground and the first thing he really sees is Max. Lifeless and prone among the wreckage, next to his mother, like he’d been one of the prisoners the entire time.

So, yeah, Michael can’t sleep. Sue him.

Instead, he decided to do what he always does: drink and forget.

He made sure to come during the usual rush because Maria wants to talk, which is the last thing Michael wanted to do. He just wanted to get drunk, flirt a little some other guy’s girl and have a reason to fight after the guy throws the first punch. It’s Michael’s MO.

He downed three tequila shots, a couple glasses of whiskey neat, six beers, and a raspberry lemon drop cocktail by the time Sheriff Valenti arrived to escort him and the tourists he’d fought with out of the bar. Michael has a split lip, his nose is bleeding, his knuckles bruised, and he can still taste blood in his mouth no matter how much he spits. He may or may not have bit his tongue at some point. The other guys look about as well off as he is. He knew for a fact he broke one of their noses—he’d made a smartass comment about it when he’d heard the crunch and groan.

Michael’s the only one thrown in the drunk tank though; another drunk and disorderly on the books. The tourists aren’t nearly as fucked up as he is and instead pay a sizeable fine. The sheriff is clearly disappointed in him. He’d managed to stay out of the tank for long enough that she’d hoped meant he got his act together. The sheriff’s lecture is brief and stiff.

It reminded him of Max.

The sheriff largely ignores him after her lecture, tells him to sleep he’ll have to sleep off the alcohol unless he has someone else that she can call, because Max and Isobel aren’t around to take him home. She, like everyone else in town, believe Max is off helping Isobel through the devastating and sudden loss of her husband. Isobel suggested the cover and Michael had rolled with it, because it meant getting Max _back_…somehow. He needed to believe they could and if the damn cover story helped him do that, so be it.

He’s half-conscious still when he heard the sheriff talking on the phone, and a tinny, slightly distorted, version of Maria’s voice coming through it. _Great_. She did _not_ sound too pleased with him. She was definitely leaving him here for the night. He doesn’t really register the meanings of the words that are being spoken until the sheriff glanced over at him, confused and intrigued, and Michael catches the name.

_Alex_.

That got through his drunk addled mind, fog lifting just enough for the pleasant anticipation of seeing Alex to be squashed by the dread of seeing Alex. Michael was at his lowest, surliest, ugliest…he didn’t want the other man to see him like this. He wanted him to see him at his best, or at least better than _this_.

The call with Maria ends, but Sheriff Valenti doesn’t put down the phone. Instead she started dialing another number and Michael feels his stomach twist with the need to throw up. He dry heaves, trying desperately not to throw up on the floor of the drunk tank.

A trash can was thrusted under his nose. He doesn’t think twice about gripping the sides and letting the mix of alcohol and bile burn the back of his throat. His eyes water and nose stings. He retches, and retches, until there’s nothing more to expel. He used the back of his hand to wipe at his mouth.

“_Two_ calls? I thought criminals only got the one,” Michael said weakly, attempting a smirk. The sheriff raised an unimpressed eyebrow.

“All I had to do was say you were drunk before Captain Manes said he’d on his way,” she said. Her voice was that careful kind of emotionless that makes Michael suspicious. He can’t tell if her lack of further questioning sets him at ease or pushes him to the edge.

It seemed she was waiting for him to respond, and he was waiting for her to just ask her goddamn question. The result was sitting in a tense silence. Michael decided to lay back on the bench and covered his eyes with his arm. One of many avoidance tactics he’d learned over the years.

Then, before Michael could realize time was still passing, Alex was there. Alex was _there_, with a gentle hand pushing sweaty curls back from his forehead and helping him sit up. His vision was spotted as he reorients himself. He pushed himself to his feet, unsteady but upright, and avoided Alex’s worried gaze. Alex’s hand never leaves his shoulder, acting as a guide and reassurance. The hand feels cool to his overheated skin, even through the fabric of his shirt.

“C’mon, Guerin,” Alex mumbled into his ear. “Let’s get you to the car.”

Michael insisted on walking on his own two feet, that he’s _fine_, but Alex and Sheriff Valenti hover anyway. It annoyed him and he told them as much. Alex had snarked back, the words going in one ear and out the other, but the general meaning of _suck it up_ ringing loud and clear. His foot ends up slipping while he pulled himself into the passenger seat, and he fell backwards into Alex. A grunt and sharp intake of breath was enough to even let a drunk Michael know he’d hurt the airman. No doubt the sudden additional weight put too much pressure on the prosthetic.

But Alex doesn’t say anything about the pain. Neither does Sheriff Valenti as she helps adjust most of Michael’s weight off Alex and into the seat. Alex started to try to buckle him in, but he tugged the belt out of his hands and mumbled that he’d do it himself. The other man sighed but nodded and made sure all limbs were inside the vehicle and away from the door so he could shut it firmly.

The window was rolled up, which made the conversation the sheriff started muffled and mostly incomprehensible, but she dismissed something which made Alex’s shoulders drop in relief. Michael hadn’t even really noticed how tense the man had been until he’d relaxed.

Alex got in the car, buckled up, and drove out of the small parking lot without a word. The radio wasn’t even on to fill the heavy air between them. It was a deliberate choice, Michael knew, because Alex loved listening to music and letting it fill the silence. This was stifling, suffocating in a way to induce conversation. He hated that it worked, because he rolled his head to the side to look at the airman’s profile as he pleaded:

“Tell me that you hate me.”

Alex glanced at him two, three times, trying to get a good look at Michael’s face and keep his eyes on the road at the same time.

“What? No, Guerin,” he said incredulously. “_Hate_ is…the exact opposite of how I feel about you. I’m angry and upset with you, but—I don’t think I could ever _hate_ you.”

“Why? You should,” Michael grumbled, looking down at his should-be-scarred hand. “How many times’ve I lied to you? Pushed you away jus’ as much as you walked ‘n I never—I never thought about tryin’ to follow…”

“Guerin,” Alex sighed. His voice was sad, defeated.

Michael hated it.

“’n I said we’d talk ‘n stuff, made you wait but then I ditched ya. I went and kissed your best friend. You _should_ hate me. Why can’t you just hate me?”

“Because I love you, Michael,” Alex answered, voice still sad and defeated but with a confidence behind the words that took Michael by surprise. “I would’ve preferred you to be sober when I said it, but I think you really need to hear it right now. I don’t care how you think I should feel about you because _I know_ how I feel about you. I don’t hate you, not for pushing me away. Not for lying. Not for leaving me waiting all damn day, and not even for Maria.

“We both make mistakes. We’re only _people_—we aren’t faultless, or perfect. Maria’s my best friend, and she’s wonderful, and I can see why anyone attracted to women would be attracted to her. I don’t hate you for it. Just…angry and hurt.”

“You really should hate me…because that was the point.”

That has Alex pulling over to the side of the road and putting the car in park. He doesn’t turn to look at Michael, just stares ahead, but his hands are still on the wheel and his knuckles are turning a bright white. He’s quiet, waiting.

“I really _do_ like her, ‘m attracted and stuff, but…I also knew it’d hurt you. I was so fucked up and broken and empty that night, everything was just too much, and…and all I could think about was Caulfield ‘n you ‘n some shit Max said when he decided to heal my fucking hand…everything just hurt, and all I could think about was making you hurt too. How fucked up is that, right? I love you _so much_ and all I could think about was what was going to hit you the hardest and make you feel the way I was feelin’.”

Michael isn’t sure when he started crying, just knew that he was. Alex, however, has his eyes squeezed shut, mouth in a firm, thin line, and jaw clenched. He’s taking deep breaths, and they’re both shaking.

“Yell at me, hit me. Something, anything,” Michael whispered into the air, voice rough and cracking. “Tell me you hate me, please, just—say that you hate me. Just, just _lie_ ‘n say you do, I don’t care…I don’t care if it’s a lie.”

Alex doesn’t say anything at all, just turns the car off and unbuckles his seat belt. He opened the door and walked around the front of the car to open Michael’s too. He doesn’t look at Michael as he gestures for him to get out and follow him into the desert. Honestly, he probably shouldn’t. But it’s _Alex, _so he followed. Only once they’re surrounded by nothing, the car a long way off and barely in view, does the airman turn and look at him.

“We’re going to scream, same time, at the universe,” he said with such finality. “The world is cruel, and so are people, and life’s not fair. Sometimes, you just gotta scream about it and let it all out on the universe so you don’t let it out on the people who love you.”

Michael eyed him warily but nodded anyway.

Three…two…one—

They scream. They scream until their lungs hurt, scream some more until their voices are hoarse and throats sore. They scream; about Max, about Jesse, about psycho alien serial killers, about faulty Wi-Fi, about misplaced car parts, about forgetting to get another box of his favorite cereal. They scream until they’re a hysterical mess of giggles, serious frustrations dwindling to minor annoyances and trying to see who could think of the silliest reason to scream at the universe.

By the time they finish screaming, drawing in heavy breaths and holding their sides, Michael is feeling much less intoxicated. Still in no shape to drive or make any thought out decisions, but in enough control of himself again that he’s _aware_ and _here_ and, more importantly, able to stand on his own two feet without the world spinning out from underneath him. Which is good, because Alex is starting to very noticeably favor one leg over the other. But Alex is as stubborn as he is and denies the offered help (though he doesn’t complain when Michael helps him anyway).

The walk back to the car is slow—he kept his eyes on the stars, using his peripherals to watch for any increased pain in Alex’s micro expressions. While screaming had certainly relaxed him, it made him no less frustrated or confused. The airman’s quiet presence soothed his tumultuous emotions as much as it furthered his frustration.

Because Alex should _hate him_. But he doesn’t.

When Michael finally gets back to the airstream and he’s laid back on the small bed, he tells himself that he doesn’t believe Alex. He tells himself that Alex really _does_ hate him. He lets his lies become a lullaby for hours until eventually his eyes are too tired to stay open.

He fell asleep and entered the same nightmare he’d been having since Max died. Only, there’s a new addition.

Alex is there, behind glass the way his mother is, and his voice overlaps hers as the countdown begins.

_I love you._

_ But you’re mine!_

_ I love you._

_ You’re a miserable liar, Guerin_

_ I love you._

Noah. Max. _Kaboom_!

Michael jerked awake, shaking and gasping. He can feel the dried tear tracks on his cheeks. His chest and lungs burned. Alex had been right after all; he really was a miserable liar.


End file.
